


Slow Fever

by aguardian



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: AC3, Gen, Hallucinogens, Sky World Journey, Tyranny of King Washington
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguardian/pseuds/aguardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His people did not dare tempt fate, not after so many souls had been lost to the King’s cities. Every man or woman strong did their part, taking up either the bow of a hunter, or the strength and black brands of the sacred Tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Version 1 - September 2013  
>  ~~Life has interfered with my stories for a while, but I'm eager to write this out before the dawn of Black Flag.~~
> 
> ~~The focus of this is to increase the severity of the Tea's effect. Power hunger is far too light a trade-off for something that grants invisibility and flight.~~
> 
> Version 2 - January 2014  
> I do wonder if anyone still cares to read this, but in an attempt to get this story going again, I've revamped the previous content, as well as changed direction in certain plot points.

He had not seen so much as tracks for the past week, and as the snowstorm closed low upon him, the Mohawk stood motionless upon the invisible border that the sachem had drawn. Nothing concrete marked it; yet the boundary shone clear in his memory, rang in his mother’s stern tone. His people did not dare tempt fate, not after losing so many souls to the king’s cities.

Still, the full quiver upon his back stung him, and the hunter only hesitated briefly before pushing forward into the settled lands.

He lifted his steps through the snow, taking care not to disturb the predators that lay here. There had never been doubt that those of the tribes were being stolen away - indeed, not always unwillingly.

As winter clawed them all, entire families had sighed and stepped hollow-eyed into the mad King’s reach. Hearsay warned that servitude was all that awaited them, but surely anything was better than watching their children starve.

Recalling this utter despair set an ache to the Mohawk's heart, though he held resolutely to his responsibilities. It was only the efforts of his people’s warriors, himself among them, which spared their own from such a fate. Every man or woman strong did their part, taking up either the bow of a hunter, or the strength and black brands of the sacred Tea.

These latter were held in high regard, but equally with caution. Not all warriors survived their sky journeys, and those that returned never did so alone. Their voices and faces remained unchanged, but all could see that a stranger lurked within them, staring out with unearthly eyes.

Still, even with all their sacrifices, the land itself withered from the colonies that lapped its rivers and swallowed its game into numberless mouths. The King looked only to his enemy across the sea and did not seem to realize that his preparations for a glorious war only ate the country from within. Soon, there would be nothing left.

Fortunately, that day was yet to come, and it was with great relief that the hunter halted beside the scarred tree. The marks where a deer had gnawed at the bark's meager nourishment were clear to his practiced eye, and he immediately set upon its trail.

However, the chase was piteously short. Perhaps impatience or his empty stomach had dulled his focus, but he had only followed the doe for mere minutes when he made a costly mistake.

He halted far too late as the deer’s head lifted abruptly, the shifting wind carrying his scent to it. With a bound, it slipped out of bow range, and the hunter could only sprint in close pursuit. He had barely gone a few steps though when he heard the doe squeal, saw it fall in a tangle of hooves. A strange weapon - no more than a barb on a rope - protruded from its throat.

He stopped sharply, following the cord with a cautious eye to find a slight, elderly man emerging from a hunting blind. When the other showed more interest in the meat than in him, the Mohawk reluctantly released his grip on his tomahawk.

“I thought she’d never come close enough,” the stranger admitted, prodding at the deer with a walking stick before turning to him. “You have my thanks.”

The hunter could not return the gaze, could barely keep the irritation from his face as he stared upon the kill and knew that he had no right to it. He respectfully kept his distance, despite thinking bitterly that honor would not fill his brothers’ stomachs.

The old man seemed to notice his indignation and he chuckled gently. “I suppose my gratitude means little to you. I have a proposal then. I’m not as young as I once was, so if you’re willing to skin the beast I’ll give you half the meat.”

The hunter looked up, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You trust that I will not steal from you?”

The other shrugged and answered simply, “You don’t seem the type.”

The Mohawk frowned at the unexpected generosity, but knew that he was in no position to doubt. He knelt beside the deer, drawing his hunting knife and brushing a fond finger over the carved wolf at its hilt. He bent his head slightly over blade and meat, habitually murmuring his thanks before cutting into the belly.

The stranger leaned both hands upon his walking stick and watched him with interest. “You have a name, boy?”

“Ratonhnhake:ton.” After a noticeable pause, he glanced at the other’s blank stare and sighed, “Kehton then, if you must.”

The elder nodded, tilting his hat to him slightly. “Achilles.”

There was no real need to, but when he had finished, the hunter packed Achilles’ share for him and helped him heft the satchel onto his bent back. The old man smiled at this and thanked him, though Kehton only responded with an impartial nod.

“I’d hurry home before sunset, Kehton,” the other spoke, not unkindly, a cloud upon his brow when he turned to leave. “There were hunters of an unsavory sort prowling near here. I wouldn’t cross them.”

The Mohawk offered a short nod as Achilles left, before slinging his own load of meat across his shoulders. The food was not much, but he knew that his tribe would appreciate the respite from the usual rats and spindly hares. He smiled slightly at the thought and headed for home.

As he neared their borders, Kehton picked up hushed voices nearby, speaking in a native tongue that he was distantly familiar with. He lifted his head curiously and, after a moment’s pause, climbed swiftly into the trees.

He hung his kill upon a sturdy branch and threaded towards the conversation. As he came to a clearing fenced on one end by three covered wagons, the hunter started at a sharp peal of wood on metal. The voices halted immediately at the scolding, and Kehton realized with shock that the wagons were actually wheeled cages, filled with men and women of varying tribes.

The colonist stepped away from the cage that he had banged his musket against, seeming satisfied with the silence, and Kehton snarled unseen above him. He glared upon the dozen or so men lounging about the camp, and knew that these were the ‘hunters’ the old man had referred to.

He glanced back to the cages and tilted his head slightly when he realized that one of the captives had noticed him. The set of the man’s shoulders and the empty sheath at his side marked him as a warrior, but Kehton saw none of the fire in his eyes. Such emptiness drew him, as if to a wounded brother, and the Mohawk dropped carefully to ground level.

He crept to the edge of the cage and took up the metal lock that sealed it, drawing the attention of all the prisoners, though they knew enough not to speak. The warrior who had first seen him threaded through the tight crowd while Kehton scratched at the lock’s mechanisms, but he seemed far from pleased. He crouched to the Mohawk’s eye level, a stern furrow at his brow as he shook his head once and waved him back.

Kehton scowled stubbornly and ignored him, keeping his full concentration on the lock picks. This, perhaps, was his mistake.

“The  _hell--?_  Oi lads, over here!”

He flinched as if burned, turning wide eyes over his shoulder at the colonist staring upon him with equal shock. Kehton was running before the other had finished speaking, but the damage had been done and the camp had woken.

Those sitting by the fire all surged to their feet when they caught sight of him, their eyes reflecting an eerie hunger. The Mohawk fled toward the tree line, desperately weaving past the many lunging bodies, but a well-placed boot caught him and threw him into the snow.

The slavers circled his fallen form with dark, triumphant grins. He stumbled upright with a snarl, knife drawn ready, but the colonists took little notice. For a moment, there was only the sound of the hunter's panting breath, and the hesitant clatter of metal as the caged tribesmen strained to watch.

“Quite a prize, eh? It looks nothing like the usual curs,” a man remarked, raking Kehton with an appraising eye. “Might even last an entire month before it drops.”

Kehton struggled to ease his nerves as the many stares bore into him, his grip on his blade wavering. He took an involuntary step back and glanced over his shoulder, but the slavers there only closed their ranks tighter.

“Careful, don’t let it run," one behind him said sharply. "I hear these wilder ones can be a handful, but it'll be worth near ten times more.”

The Mohawk saw his chance as the colonists fought over which of them would take him and he charged the circle, preempting any decision. Rising panic granted him the first spilled blood, but those that snatched at his arms were lit with equal desperation.

Kehton twisted viciously in the slavers’ grasp, his blade laying open fingers and outstretched palms. He painted the snow with lashes, but every man who staggered away from him with bloodied sleeves was replaced in an instant.

It steadily became a struggle to stay on his feet, and eventually a blow to the head stole his balance for a precious second. The ropes were waiting for him, and Kehton dropped his knife as they bit into his wrists.

He pulled violently against his captors; once, twice, each jerked movement indignant. However, their grip was unyielding, and as Kehton strained against the bonds that he could not break, an unfamiliar helplessness began to poison his heart.

The two men at his sides began to drag him forward, half-panting, half-laughing as they wrestled him towards the line of cages. The hunter fought them the entire short distance, digging his boots into the icy ground and keeping his panicked gasps clenched behind his teeth.

As they skirted one wagon, Kehton lifted his clouded gaze quite by chance, and was surprised to find the warrior - the same he had attempted to free moments ago - staring at him urgently, giving a subtle gesture for him to come closer. Only here did he notice that the colonists were completely ignoring the caged natives, their eyes solely on him. The Mohawk set his jaw and nodded, before lunging sideways and slamming himself and his two captors against the bars.

Many hands darted past the irons and snatched at the slavers, only able to pin them to the cage for a few seconds, but that was enough.

Kehton wrenched free and was running again, dodging the outraged cries all around him. Though still unable to free his hands, he managed to sweep up his fallen knife and reach the safety of the forest.

As he sprinted away, he glanced back at the many somber eyes peering past the bars, unable to follow. Kehton dropped his gaze to the snow, knowing that he could not save them, had no choice but to leave them behind. It nearly tore him in two all the same.

Only instinct led him back onto familiar paths, as the shame blinded him like a wound.

The Mohawk ran on, ignoring the imbalance of his steps and the painful rasp in his chest. He could not bring himself to halt until he had returned to his people’s lands, still feeling the breath of the pursuing colonists despite having lost them long ago. The faces of the ones he had abandoned too haunted him.

He stopped in the hollow of a cliff to cut his bindings, but found with frustration that it took him much longer to ease his shivering. He was a young man now, but the terror he clutched was that of a child woken by nightmares. His weakness was undeniable, and he loathed himself for it.

What if those captives had been his tribesmen? His  _mother?_ Would fear have driven him away just as easily?

Kehton knew dully that the answer did not matter, would not lessen his guilt. The people he had left behind could have been a mother to someone else, a partner, a brother. Yet still he had saved himself and damned them all.

When he had calmed enough to gather his bearings, the hunter was startled to find himself within sight of the Great Willow. The ancient tree spread its leaves into the bone white sky, staining it as if blood on water.

Kehton distractedly touched the bruises at his wrists and knew that his desire for strength did not have to go unanswered. After all, every Mohawk who had come of age knew how to brew the Tea, though many did shy from its consequences. His mother as well had adamantly forbidden it.

Still, what kind of warrior was he really if he could not even protect himself?


	2. Granted Fangs

It only took the hunter a moment to pluck the young branches and stoke a fire in a long-used pit at the Great Willow’s base. As he crouched waiting for the tea to boil, he cleaned out the earthenware bowl he had found buried in snow, in an attempt to tamp down his unease. The warriors who had sat here before him had left hastily and absently, leaving behind footprints and still-burning fires. Such carelessness could not be without reason.

Kehton pushed his worries to the back of his mind, uttering a quiet apology to his mother before tipping the steaming liquid into his mouth. The warmth was welcome, but any semblance of comfort was lost in the next second.

In a lurch, the world seemed to shatter before his eyes, raking blurred snow and stones into the sky. The Mohawk gave a choked gasp and tried to stand, but he could no longer see the light of his fire, or even the scarlet of the Great Willow.

_The leader was running, the steady footfalls of its brothers close at its sides. It lifted its nose to the wind, breathing deeply upon biting cold and the nearby scent of musk and meat._

_It was the first to catch sight of their quarry, a great, shaggy elder that lifted its crowned head at their approach. The old one’s bray was doleful as it turned to run, but its bones creaked from hunger and the weakness of years. It was not long for this world, and if the hunters did not take it, winter itself would._

_Flurries whirled about their feet as they picked up the chase, enclosing the elder on both sides. The leader lunged forward onto the prey’s flank, teeth crunching into withered muscle and bone. A scream of pain and a blur of movement as the old one kicked out, until the brothers leapt in and bore them all into the ground._

_The thrashing stilled as the leader tore through the slippery flesh and closed its fangs upon the heart. Its brothers waited respectfully a moment, before jostling in alongside its shoulders and filling their own jaws with meat. They knew their meals to be few and far between, and met this unspoken invitation to feast..._

Kehton woke jarringly, a rush of cold and pain searing upon his senses. He curled his fingers into the snow and unsteadily raised himself onto his forearms. Immediately, the stench of blood and entrails hit him, and he looked up in dull confusion.

His eyes were slow to focus, but as they fixed upon the elk carcass inches from his face, he recoiled into a hasty sit, a hand reflexively over his mouth. His sight - suddenly, near dizzyingly acute - fixed upon every bloody tear in the hide, every gouge in the half-frozen innards.

The Mohawk found an explanation in the many wolf tracks pressed into the snow about him, but as he shakily lowered his hand from his lips, he froze. He stared in shock upon the strings of black blood stretched and dripping from his fingers.

Only here did he remember the chase, the  _feast_. He was sharply aware of the gore slicked across his chin and chest, of the raw flesh sitting like a weight in his stomach. The realization brought a wave of nausea and Kehton stumbled away from the corpse, snatching at a tree for balance as he retched.

He fled for the river and threw the icy water into his face, ignoring the pinpricks of frostbite as he cleaned himself with shivering fervor. When he had finished, the hunter shakily rubbed the water from his jaw, fighting to ease his breath and the tangle of delirious questions. Had there been too steep a price for the sky journey's power? Had he just surrendered too much of himself?

This near-crippling dread was hushed as the Wolf brushed against his thoughts like a shadow.  _Does it matter?_  it asked plainly, sweeping its tail.  _Does a hunter wonder why he is granted fangs?_

Here, Kehton finally calmed, releasing a long breath and lowering his gaze to meet the eyes of his reflection. The Wolf stared back at him; peering past the black marks that scored his face in three vicious trails.

 _No,_  the Mohawk ceded silently.  _No, he does not._

It took him some time to grow accustomed to its voice, but he eventually began to heed the Wolf as closely as any of his other senses. As Kehton roved the frontier, it warned him of dangers carried over miles on the wind, told him of prey that had bedded here nights before. It took the senses he had been born with and amplified them a hundredfold.

He could feel its strength feeding him as well, and every leap carried him further, every step cost him less. The hunter reached his old camp of two days past in a matter of hours, and felt as rested as if he had just woken.

Kehton honestly forgot himself as he wallowed in the freedoms offered to him. He was thus startled back into wariness when he reached an unfamiliar path churned and trampled heavily by wooden wheels. He made for the safety of branches, though curiosity kept him from turning back.

The Mohawk followed the road from above, winding with it until it crested over a ridge and brought a distant cluster of buildings into sight. He had never seen it before, but he knew this could only be the King’s great utopia, which marred the sky with smoke and seeped outwards like a sickness.

The many roads that coiled towards the city were thick with convoys delivering timber and labor for the drydocks. The path he had come across was no different, and Kehton stopped short when the jarringly familiar sound of irons and close-packed bodies carried to him. The caravan was a distance below him, yet still he scowled distastefully. These slavers reeked of sweat and stolen blood.

For a moment, he simply stared upon the colonists, who traveled several steps before and behind their captives, as if fearing disease. This was not the group he had encountered the previous day, but Kehton felt a stab of mingled shame and fury all the same.

He did not hesitate to come to the natives’ aid, a sudden protectiveness driving him forward. He was running again, bounding down between the crags to avoid disturbing pockets of gathered snow.

The hunter felt the briefest confusion that he had not thought to use his bow. However, he soon realized that the Wolf’s pitiless hunger was too strong to resist. A barb through the heart would be too quick, too kind. These men deserved fear.

He took the leader of the column first, the kill dealt messily and blatantly in sight of the others. Complete shock held any from crying the alarm, at least until Kehton had felled two more. Shots were finally fired but just as easily as he had shown himself, he vanished, ducking low into the bushes and sprinting for a different approach.

He came at them from every angle, and panicked eyes mistook the single assailant as many.

Kehton moved confidently, his hunting knife tucked close to his chest and his tomahawk bared before him. The heavy metal shattered bone and bayonet alike, and the whisper of the knife granted the dying small mercies.

This play of blood was familiar to him, but over time, the hunter began to feel a creeping unease. Moments of blackness began to intersect the fight, disorienting him even as instinct kept him in motion. He would charge an enemy, only to find him somehow already dead, would lift his blade, only to find it now buried in another's throat. In these fleeting seconds, he lost himself to the Wolf, and could only blink upon the carnage in its wake.

The last soldier fell screaming, amid corpses split by seemingly countless beasts. Only here did the Spirit retreat, leaving Kehton to stumble to a halt and catch his breath. With forced nonchalance, he wiped the stain of blood from his chin, realizing late that he must have bitten two or three of his enemies sometime in the fever.

The savagery struck him only when he looked up to meet the wide eyes of the ones he had saved and practically smelled their fear. He quietly weathered their flinched movements as he approached, their disbelieving stares when he assured them he meant no harm. How could he blame them?

Kehton pried away the locks and advised the natives to return to a home he quickly found out they no longer had. He hesitated a moment before directing them toward the Mohawk village, promised them that this age of winter would not last.

He watched them depart and swallowed his own lie, knowing silently that these men he had killed were but a paltry handful from the legion. More would take the place of those who had died here, swelling the King’s armada and devouring their own land before any else’s.

The hunter looked past the forest to the jagged skyline of the city, and knew then what was needed of him. This torment would continue until the tyrant had brought either his enemy or his own country to ashes.

Kehton held to his very soul that King Washington would need to die.


	3. Blood and Fire

Kehton did not think to return to his village until he had scoured their borders several times over the next few days, leaving burnt caravans and trails of freed natives in his wake.

Each encounter honed his otherworldly strengths, though so too did they teach him caution. Every twist or strike of his blades became deliberate, the Spirit’s blood thirst kept rigidly under control. The Tea had given him much, but for each man he killed, for each lash of crimson spilled upon the snow, the price of its power grew heavier.

Should his concentration waver even for a moment, the hunter would forget himself, as if blinking for minutes at a time in the heat of the fighting.

Whenever these lapses in memory threatened to drown him, Kehton would stop abruptly, often mid-strike. He would recover his breath - and, he sometimes feared, his sanity - and only stare after the fleeing colonists with the Wolf's hunger reflected in his eyes.

However, this reluctant mercy was not without its benefits. The Mohawk later found that he had gained a reputation, and the caravan guards in turn began to dwindle into pitiful numbers. Despite their persistence, the remaining ones would flinch at shadows and trade fearful whispers about the ‘phantom wolf.' It was with vicious satisfaction that Kehton set upon them and silenced their gossip.

Only after the Wolf had been sated, after Kehton had gazed upon the smoke trails that marked his people’s widened border, did he think to rest.

His mother’s greeting when he returned home was far from warm, but the hunter was not really surprised. Whether it was from his unusually long absence, or from the Wolf’s mark upon his face, Kaniehti:io made it quite clear that she was not pleased to see him.

“You disobey me, then have the nerve to return as if nothing happened?” Ziio lifted a hand to cuff him a second time, though she reconsidered and simply turned her back on him to pace agitatedly.

“Forgive me,” the younger Mohawk spoke quietly, which seemed to somewhat curb his mother’s temper. However, when she shook her head and finally looked at him again, Kehton found himself confused at the sorrow in her eyes.

He had readily expected anger (given he could have done without the clout to the head), but this grief that she was stubbornly trying to hide was unfamiliar. He had never known his mother to weep at disobedience.

“I have told you many times before, Ratonhnhake:ton,” Ziio sighed, cupping his cheek and tracing a thumb across one of the black brands. “You are the son of a man of violence. No good can come from this.”

The hunter frowned and gently set his own hand against hers. “I will not abandon you as he did, mother.”

Ziio pursed her lips and drew away, masking any further emotions behind a clipped tone. “Oia:ner will expect you to fight now. I do not agree with it, but if this is the path you have chosen, my son, do not stray from it.”

Kehton nodded low as his mother left the longhouse, deciding not to press her further. The topic of his father had always seemed a fresh wound to her, a pain that he had wished he could ease since he had been a boy.

His own memories of the man were warm but indistinct, buried in the days before the tyrant King. Even so, Kehton could still recall his father’s accent and the steel of his eyes, his martial demeanor that Ziio had openly mocked. His mother had still laughed then.

But such times had been lost after a single day of blood and fire, a trauma that Kehton could scarcely remember, child he had been. All he knew was that his father had vanished, and that his mother never again spoke the name ‘Haytham.’

Kehton shook his head and roused himself from memory, turning instead to his new duties. To his people, he would be a hunter no longer, but a sky warrior, a pursuer of soldiers instead of game.

The Clan Mother directed him to the others who had taken the Tea, and he was welcomed into their ranks with solemn approval. Kanen'to:kon in particular silently set a warm hand on his shoulder, offering a smile that twisted the claw mark brands along his jaw.

Kehton took well to his assigned guard patrol, roving the valley alongside his brothers. He helped drive back the king’s surveyors and scouts, relishing in the opportunity to protect his people. Any who came too close to their shred of sanctuary was not allowed to live.

Still, they knew too well that their village was no secret. The bare protection they could muster was the promise that they would not be taken without a fight, and the hope that the king would turn instead on easier prey.

Weeks passed as such, but it was not until the first attack that Kehton was truly tested.

It was one of their hunters who caught the approach of the king’s army, and everyone was herded back into the defense of their wooden walls. The warriors gathered just beyond the barricaded entrance, readying themselves with knotted shoulders and clipped, hushed conversations. None of them would admit it, but the coming force was the largest they had yet faced.

Kehton crouched beside Kanen'to:kon as the clatter of preparations rang around them, careful to keep both his tomahawk and knife close at hand.

He wondered briefly whether his brother had also suffered memory loss when the Bear’s bloodlust ran too high, whether he too was vulnerable to the latent poison of the Tea. Kehton’s chance to speak dwindled, and he soon realized that he feared the other’s answer.

Eventually, the drumbeats of the colonial march crested the valley ridge, and Kehton abandoned his question unasked.

As soldiers fell upon their village like a terrible rain, Kehton ran forward alongside the other sky warriors. He had fought beside them many times, but much had changed after he had been granted another’s eyes. Rather than his brothers setting upon the soldiers, he instead saw the Cougar, the Serpent, the Crow. They in turn glanced at him with glowing eyes and he knew that they could see within him too.

Kehton killed his first enemy in a bound, stabbing deep into the throat and trailing heavy threads of blood as he twisted clear. With each lunge, he tore through cloth and flesh without distinction, raking bone. It was easy now to lose the Spirit to the hunt, but it took fiercer concentration to keep it in check.

Despite the Wolf's strength spurring him enough to hold his own, Kehton kept his brothers close on both sides. Dread experience had taught the Mohawk warriors to form their lines strong and keep themselves between their enemy and the village.

The past times Kanatahseton had been attacked, the ranks of colonists had charged their walls like weasels raiding nest eggs, striking impatiently at those in their way and focusing on breaching the village.

The slavers had never cared about the warriors they killed, and had only been intent on carrying off any Mohawk who did not bear arms, their foragers or young mothers or boys in training. The fate that would befall those taken was never in question.

The warriors held back the onslaught, the memory of past threats ever clear. However, for seemingly every man they dropped, another came to take his place. The King’s loyal pressed forward with unnerving determination, driven by glory or the lash, it did not matter. They would do as they were told or collapse from their efforts.

The village hunters, not to be outdone by their Spirit-aided brothers, stood just as steadfast in two groups at either of their flanks. These defenders who had refused the Tea fought with no less conviction, war club or tomahawk serving them just as well. Still, the colonists seemed to sense their earthly weakness and aimed to take them first.

Among them, Kehton recognized his mother, and he came swiftly to her aid when three of the enemy set on her at once. The Wolf snarled protectively, knowing its kin, and any who dared approach her felt its fangs.

However, after the battle had raged for several minutes, Kehton realized uneasily that the colonists’ tactics had changed.

He risked a glance at the many bodies choking the field and found that none of the Mohawk had yet been killed, though not entirely because of their own efforts. The soldiers had merely waited until their ranks had swelled and surrounded the line of warriors like a stream, caging them safely between prodding yet bizarrely silent muskets.

Only when the warriors had been corralled, did the colonists look instead toward the village. Only here, came the torches.

Their village had never been threatened with fire before, not when the slavers had once avoided damaging their potential merchandise. But today was different, and Kehton felt a surge of incredulous anger as the timbers barring the entrance caught and blazed. In seconds, the entire stockade was aflame.

There was a stretched moment as the others around him froze in horror or shock, before they all turned as one in an attempt to clear the barricades they themselves had built.

However, any attempt to reach the walls was rebuked viciously with bayonet and gunstock. At worst, the warriors suffered broken bones or lacerations, but such was simply what they had been trained for. It was the _innocents_ who were dying, screaming as they burned. The sound was terrible, but worse still was the dread silence that soon followed.

Kehton was not alone in throwing himself against the colonist army, pushing heedlessly in his desperation to reach the swelling pyre. The Wolf snarled wild in the back of his mind, incited by the clamor, by the darting bayonets and blinding smoke. His fellow warriors roiled and killed within the narrow space they had been hemmed into, seeming like fire themselves, but the army outnumbered them utterly.

He could not understand such needless cruelty, could only think that the colonists believed that watching their elders and children die would somehow break them. The confusion and anger still coiled heavy in his chest when Kehton caught the sound of horsemen coming up the path.

The three newcomers dismounted at the edge of the skirmish, each observing the flames and death that raged before them. Two generals stood at the shoulders of their commander, the younger of them seeming to have the decency to appear uncomfortable, the other taking in the massacre with wry satisfaction. It was the rider at the center, however, who called all eyes.

Kehton started slightly as he was shouldered aside, and he blinked in surprise at Ziio’s fury. She stared upon the commander with recognition and unbridled anger, the blaze in her eye speaking of wounds deeper than this burning of their village. They had met before, surely.

The young Mohawk could only struggle to follow as his mother flew in the complete opposite direction of the battle. She cut her way past the startled colonists and made straight for the man who could be none else but the tyrant King, drawing back her tomahawk for a throw.

No musket within range had time to fire, and Kehton felt a rush of both thrill and fear at the thought that the king would die, here, now, among the proud people he had thought to quell.

A flash of gold blinded him and the warrior flinched back, aware of others nearby doing the same. The light faded as quickly as it had come and Kehton froze when he noticed the crumpled figure on the ground.

“Mother!” He could barely speak past his stricken throat, but his shock ebbed when he looked up at the king, who had stepped over Ziio’s body in disinterest. Kehton’s wide eyes narrowed in an instant, as his heartache too quickly swelled into rage.

_The Wolf gave a snarl as it ran to avenge its fallen dam, ears flattened and tail lashing once in agitation. It snapped at the air, wishing only to tear apart he who had taken her--_

Kehton came to his senses with a start, stopping mid-run and very nearly losing his balance. He realized abruptly that the lapse had been jarringly different, had been more like his vision right after drinking the Tea. Somehow, he had _been_ the Wolf, had felt its feral ardor as his own. Nothing had remained of the man he was and that terrified him.

In a lurch, the bloodlust rose again, threatening darkness on his vision.

_It shook itself and lunged into a run again, easily sighting its prey just ahead. It wove through a crowd of blue-draped bodies and leapt, paws heavy upon the chest of one that had dared to block its path. The Wolf’s fangs closed around the throat, wrenching left and right to rip out the beginnings of a scream--_

Kehton jerked himself back to consciousness, flinching away from the soldier into whom he had buried teeth and knife and tomahawk all. He coughed against the corpse’s blood, fighting to breathe, to ease the frenzied Spirit. Its wild anger burned him like a sickness.

For a moment, he thought he would lose himself completely, until he lifted his gaze and saw that his mother was stirring - faintly, feebly, but _stirring_ all the same.

The relief was fleeting, but as encompassing as a wave. Kehton gasped as if freed from a noose, as the reassurance finally tempered the Wolf into a quieter resolve. Its vengeance cooled, and he saw again with clarity. Only his mother mattered to him now.

The warrior abandoned his pursuit of the king and returned to Ziio, shoving his weapons back into his belt and falling to a crouch beside her. Her breathing was even but her eyes were closed; a confusing state, given he was not quite sure what the tyrant had struck her with.

Occupied as he was, Kehton failed to notice the sudden silence of the battlefield or the steps of the person approaching him from behind.

“She’ll live.” The Mohawk bristled at the imperious comment and looked sharply over his shoulder. Washington had halted mere steps at his back and Kehton defiantly straightened, shielding his mother.

“I take it you’re the so-called wolf that's been menacing my supply lines?” the king asked, looking him over with evident curiosity. “The tales of demonic strength already intrigued me, but to see that you can also resist this artifact? Truly fascinating.”

Kehton felt a cresting of guilt upon realizing that _he_ had called this army upon his people, but he fought to hide it. He glanced around, almost fearing the accusing gaze of his fellow Mohawk, and only here did he notice that he was the last one standing.

The other warriors had collapsed, just as his mother had, fallen but visibly unharmed. The ethereal light had struck them all, though Kehton could not understand how.

“What have you done to them?” he demanded, meeting the king’s eye with open hatred.

“Ah, a civil tongue as well. You are quite the rarity, aren’t you?” The tyrant smirked, carelessly turning his golden scepter in one hand - the ‘artifact’ he had mentioned, Kehton presumed - before answering, “You need not worry. You and all your kind were made to serve a higher purpose.”

“To serve you, you mean,” Kehton said derisively. He threw a glare at the soldiers standing in loose formation around him, feeling the Wolf crouch low in anticipation. “I will die before I let you take them.”

His defiance stirred the colonists with unease, and none expected the Mohawk to lunge directly for Washington, ignoring the many musket barrels that threatened him. None seemed to realize that cornered beasts would bite.

The King, however, only eyed him in mild indignation. Kehton could only growl out in frustration as his enemy sidestepped him with unexpected agility, and he could not regain his balance before he slammed bodily into a second figure.

The Mohawk faltered, but when the man grabbed his blade arm, he recoiled instinctively to free himself. The younger of the king’s generals only scowled and tightened his grip, his dull green eyes narrowed.

“You brought this on yourself, boy,” the colonist spoke, irritated. In the close proximity, the warrior blinked, realizing that he recognized the man.

“Cha--?” The name he could remember his father speaking often, fondly, as if to a brother, was lost as two other soldiers seized him from behind and dragged him back.

Ropes bit into his wrists and shoulders, but Kehton's struggle to escape them came far too late. He could only stare at the motionless general, who watched him with exasperated pity, until a blindfold fell over his eyes and sealed him off from the world.


	4. Hollow

Being bound and blind was maddening. Kehton listened hard; his frustration barely restrained as he turned his head uselessly and tried to track his enemies by the scuff of boots on packed snow. Several times, he lunged for a supposed opening in the ranks, only to be caught again. He could do nothing to resist as his weapons were taken from him.

As the Mohawk was hauled down the path, he heard the steps and grunts of effort from other soldiers picking through the battlefield, likely collecting the fallen warriors. The realization that he was their last defense fueled him, and he forced himself to forget that he had just met Charles again, a face he had not seen since his childhood.

However, the army had clearly been prepared to take a large number of them alive. Kehton had only been pulled a few feet when he heard the nickering of draft horses and the now-familiar creak of caravan cage wheels.

He was pushed rather violently, and the warrior fell forward when his knees connected with the raised floor of the cage. He struggled to get his feet back under him as a wooden door slammed into place, abruptly cutting off the sound of voices and crackling fire. Clearly, he was a threat worthy of an enclosed cart.

His agitated breath echoed unnervingly in the narrow space, and Kehton felt a sudden, suffocating dread.

In a rush of nerves, he threw his shoulder against the door, hearing protests and obvious struggle as the colonists hurried to bolt it. He lunged again and was rewarded with a fleeting sliver of sunlight, before three other bodies slammed against the opposite side and sealed him in again.

A moment later, he more felt than heard the scrape of metal as the bolt slid home. The Mohawk gave a frustrated breath and took a step away. Wisps of cold air brushed against his face as he straightened, presumably through a barred window at the top of the door.

Through it, Kehton could hear the shouted exchange of some of the colonists, and he felt a surge of confused relief when it was decided that some of the still-breathing warriors would be left behind. He wondered if he preferred that his mother be among them.

He stumbled as the cart jerked abruptly into motion, and he turned unseeing eyes forward. A second bump on the road knocked him painfully against the side of the cage, thus he slid slowly to the floor, knowing that he could do little but save his strength.

Over the course of the travel, Kehton managed to work the blindfold up off his eyes, though he had less success with the ropes. He eventually gave up and settled on watching the branches and darkened sky flash past the narrow window, worrying inevitably for his brothers.

The cart slowed to a halt some time after the scenery outside had changed from wilderness to brick walls and glass. The warrior was left in silence for a moment, as his guards evidently tended to their easier prizes first. Eventually though, he heard movement near the cage door, at which he stood and braced in a low stance against the back wall.

The locks were removed and the door was opened, but Kehton remained motionless in the sunset darkness, knowing that the soldiers outside were tense as he was. He coiled, smelling the fear of the men just beyond the cage, and lunged into the open when one of them stepped forward to remove him by force.

Kehton rammed the soldier full in the chest, relishing in the glimpse of the man’s stunned expression before they both hit the ground. The Mohawk rolled to his feet in the shadow of a looming warehouse and stared a challenge at the five around him.

The Wolf paced at the edge of his consciousness, pacing and ready, but Kehton was hesitant to depend on it. Even in such dire circumstance, he shied from the Spirit, feared the memory of drowning in its rage.

However, without the Wolf’s strength, it proved pitifully easy for the soldiers to subdue him again, and Kehton earned a bruise to the jaw for his troubles. As he was brought roughly toward the building entrance, he thought to look around for other members of his tribe. However, the only other carts that he could see already stood empty.

The warehouse swallowed them and Kehton blinked to adjust his gaze, frowning at the stench of sweat and tightly packed bodies. The dim corridors branched towards many cellblocks, but despite straining to see into them, he failed to recognize any faces or voices from the natives within.

He was brought to an isolated room deep in the building, separated from the others by a long hallway and a reinforced wooden door. Unlike the blocks they had passed, the room held only a single cell; the doors of wood and iron perpendicular and as far from each other as the room would allow.

His large escort filed back into the main warehouse, and Kehton watched them with narrowed eyes until both doors had swung closed. He then gave a quiet breath into the empty room, fighting to ease his nerves as he lowered himself to a sit.

The warrior had only waited about an hour when he was startled to receive a visitor. The person’s identity, however, was quite expected.

“We’ve already met, haven’t we?”

Kehton lifted his head, studying Charles warily as the other carefully shut the wooden entrance behind him. Though he received no answer, the general continued regardless.

“I admit, that woman you were protecting was familiar as well. Your mother, I assume? You are the very image of her.” Charles frowned, silent a long moment before adding reluctantly, “And of him.”

Kehton stood slowly to meet the other’s eye. “You know my father.” It was not a question, though Charles inclined his head slightly anyway. The Mohawk approached the bars on light steps, still cautious. “He called you brother once. Does that still stand?”

The general gave a quiet, derisive laugh. “No, not as it once did. His savage woman saw to that. Still, I actually meant my vow of loyalty to him, creed or no.”

Kehton nodded, though Charles was quick to add tersely, “But that hardly matters, unfortunately for you. His Majesty has his eye on you now – due to your own meddling, I should add – so don’t ask me to save you.”

“I was not going to,” the Mohawk answered irritably. “My actions are my own. However, it is my people I worry for. Have you no decency? Would you enslave those who only wish to live in peace?”

The general bristled visibly and stepped closer, but Kehton did not flinch from his challenge.

“I do not need a child like you criticizing me,” Charles hissed, darting an unnecessary glance at the hallway. “Yes, King Washington opposes everything my Order stands for, but I am not foolish enough to provoke him directly. Exactly what do you think your father and I have been doing these past years?”

“Nothing useful,” the warrior scoffed, glancing pointedly at the cell around him.

The general’s lip twisted in a small sneer and he took a step away. “Well, it is not _me_ who the king is about to interrogate.”

Charles turned sharply and moved for the door. Though Kehton had remained silent, some amount of fear must have flashed in his eye, for the general hesitated. He sighed and threw over his shoulder, “I will return later, if you are still... sound.”

The Mohawk scowled, considering rebuking the other’s pity, but Charles had left before he could reply.

Kehton spent the next few hours pacing the enclosed space, admittedly tense and wondering what the tyrant wanted with him. His roiling unease stirred the Spirit’s own nerves, and he found himself periodically shutting his eyes for several breaths in an attempt to quiet it.

It was in the midst of this internal conflict that the king and his bodyguards finally arrived. The warrior held back the Wolf’s growl that rose in his throat, and settled instead for rigid silence as the door to his cell swung open.

Two soldiers entered first, backing Kehton toward the far wall but avoiding actually touching him. They unnerved him almost immediately, and it took a minute for him to realize that it was because of their eyes. He remembered the king’s artifact and realized guardedly that the flat, golden gaze marked one enthralled. The King did not trust his own people, it seemed.

Washington swept in smoothly behind his bodyguards, the whirl of his rich blue cape and gold finery seeming incongruous in this rat’s nest. He stood at ease between the motionless soldiers, perhaps a step away from Kehton, and the Wolf began to bristle from his proximity and piercing eyes.

“You are wasting your time,” Kehton stated, speaking brusquely past his nerves. The Mohawk’s bearing was steady, though he suddenly wished that his arms were not still tied behind his back. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“We’ll see about that,” Washington replied with a grim smile. “For now, I shall speak then. There will be time enough for your answers.”

Kehton only eyed him scornfully, though this did nothing to stem the other’s words.

“Let’s discuss this inhuman strength your kind stumbled on. It is remarkable, truly,” the tyrant spoke, almost earnestly. “It isn’t something you’re born with, but neither have you had it for generations. My men were quite thorough. None very young or very old bore these... fascinating marks.”

Kehton jerked sharply away from the hand lifting idly towards his cheek, his lip pulled back in a snarl. The threat was only met with wry amusement, and Washington straightened with evident anticipation.

“It’s quite clear. Your power is gained by _choice_ somehow, not inherited.” The king spread his hands, his expression almost genial, though Kehton felt only disgust from the sincerity. “I could choose to give it to great protectors, the _worthy_ who could serve us all. Don’t you see? It is selfish for your kind to hoard this gift.

The Mohawk neither spoke nor moved in response, but the stubborn defiance in his eye was only met with a chuckle.

“You can stop looking at me with such arrogance,” Washington said dryly, his smile fading to a grim line. “I know your type. You would only be _proud_ to resist any bodily threats, would cling to your empty accomplishments. Still, I’m sure you’ll tell me the secrets of this power soon enough.”

Kehton glanced a little involuntarily at the scepter in the king’s left hand, but the unease was fleeting. “I do not know what power that artifact of yours holds,” he scoffed. “But I think you have already proven that it has no effect on me.”

“Perhaps not. But you’ll find yourself quite alone in that respect.” Washington glanced over his own shoulder, past the iron bars and towards the corridor. Kehton all but felt his heart stop as he followed the gaze to the figure being escorted in.

The Mohawk felt some relief when he saw his mother recovered and on her feet, but it was lost just as quickly when she met his gaze. The golden glow of Washington’s scepter reflected in her hollow eyes, her expression a wiped canvas.

Kehton opened his mouth to speak to her, a desperate hope that she would recognize him, but his words faltered when Ziio reached for the hunting knife being offered to her by the king. Her movements were slow, puppet-like, and this unnerved him more than the action itself.

“Stop,” the warrior forced out, his demand wavered. The blade that his mother angled against her own throat flashed at him mockingly.

Washington looked to him with a lifted brow, expectant, his gaze lit with the same eerie gold. In the choked silence, the light of the artifact coiled slowly into the air as if waiting, as if threads of smoke.


	5. Distant Cry

The simple phrase that could save his mother clawed at his throat, but Kehton could not bring himself to speak it. If this tyrant learned of the Tea, how many more would he enslave? How many lives would be taken?

The warrior’s breath was uneven as he glanced from the scepter’s mesmerizing glow to the emptiness of his mother’s expression, so blank and lacking the fire he had grown to depend on. He knew that he had to protect her, but how did one break an attack on the mind?

His indecision stretched, evidently for too long. The knife lurched suddenly, the jolted reaction of one startled, opening a jagged tear across Ziio’s collarbone.

The wound was not fatal, was not even deep enough to scar, yet Kehton could not keep himself from surging forward, his snarl lit with the Wolf’s fangs. The bodyguards rebuked him easily though, a sharp push against either shoulder.

“Three,” Washington spoke flippantly, though his impatience was clearly mounting. A flick of the scepter and Ziio lifted the blade just above the thin stream of crimson, setting it against the base of her throat.

Kehton clenched his fists behind his back, every fiber of him taut. Bound though he was, he was sure that he could at least knock the artifact from the king’s hand. However, he knew too that it would be his mother who would pay and bleed for his efforts.

He wavered upon the edge of action and reluctance, the helplessness tearing at him. The Wolf slavered, half-mad at the end of its chain.

The tyrant saw the weakness of his heart too well; there was no denying it. Kehton gritted his teeth and slowly dropped his gaze, reluctantly easing the tension in his stance. It stung him, but he knew that he was not strong enough, not for this.

“The power...” the Mohawk finally spoke roughly, the guilt tight in his chest. He faltered a moment, wrestling with his agitated breath, with the distant cry of treachery that plagued him still. “The power is of a red willow tree, sacred to my people.”

“I’m listening.” Washington lowered his scepter with obvious satisfaction, the golden light settling into a spiral about his arm. Ziio did not lower the knife however, her gaze still distant and oblivious to the life spilling from her by the second.

Kehton had to swallow hard to continue speaking. “Release her first,” he said, meeting the king’s eye with difficulty. “Release her, then I will tell you more--”

The blade flashed again and the words died upon the Mohawk’s tongue. The guards swiftly caught his arms as he made another rush for the cell door, desperate and again, too late. He could only stare upon the quickly thickening flow of blood and see that his mother could endure little else.

“Two,” Washington nearly spat this time, with something akin to righteous fury in his eye. “You will speak because I command it, not as a bargaining chip.”

“I...!” The Mohawk’s voice started faint, but rose to a near frantic note when he saw the king lift his scepter again, saw the blood-slicked knife follow suit.

Kehton spoke in a blind rush, describing the Tea and the ridge where the willow took root. The secrets spilled from him in one breath, but deathly silence followed his words, resounding them.

The warrior froze, almost in shock at his own betrayal. He was unable to move even as Washington’s lip twisted into a slow smile, and Kehton saw too late that honesty would save no one. The flash in the black eyes mocked his naiveté.

It was only for an instant, but as Kehton wildly turned distraught eyes towards his mother’s face, he saw the artifact’s power ebb. Ziio blinked slowly, as if roused, and the slightest, confused smile reached her eyes when she met his gaze and seemed to wonder why he was so upset.

This calming warmth lingered even when the knife was jerked a last time. It took a seeming age for the surge of blood to hit the floor, for the slight body to follow.

Kehton did not remember lunging forward and only later felt hands clawing at his arms from behind, the guards fumbling to keep him from reaching the king. He gave a choked sound more roar than any intelligible word and twisted viciously from their grip.

The rage burned high in him as he charged Washington, the Wolf howling its agreement. However, beneath his anger, Kehton knew that there was the hiss of an accusation, the shame that he had _allowed_ his mother to be killed. He may as well have dealt the blow himself.

His whirl of thoughts blurred his focus, and the warrior was only blankly surprised when his legs were swept out from under him mid-run. He stumbled past Washington and hit the floor painfully, on his knees then shoulder, skidding to a halt against the bars.

He lay there gasping for a moment, his body wracked with both frustration and grief. He had fallen just opposite Ziio, on the other side of the bars, but he refused to look. The metallic stench of her blood filled him, condemning.

A shadow falling over him forced him to look up, and Kehton turned clouded eyes upon the king, who had stooped low over his curled form.

“Thank you.” The sneer fell like a blow and Kehton flinched when Washington reached suddenly for him. However, he only felt a cold cramp in his shoulders as his bonds were cut and his arms freed, a perverse reward for his cooperation.

With that, the king turned on his heel and left Kehton to slowly raise himself into a sit, his gaze averted. The two soldiers followed Washington out of the cell and barred it behind them, all but stepping over the warrior as they did. He made no sign that he had noticed or cared.

Washington strode for the door back into the warehouse, and waved a beckoning hand to the three slavers who stood fidgeting just beyond it. They jumped to obey, glancing to each other in masked discomfort.

“Should we dispose of the other one as well, sir?” a colonist asked hesitantly, glancing to Kehton as he and his fellows heaved the corpse from the room, smudging a streak through the scattered red pools.

“That won’t be necessary,” Washington said, giving the Mohawk an even stare before lazily kicking the stained knife into the cell with him. “I’d give it a day. Afterwards, return and clean up the mess.”

Kehton barely heard the door slam shut behind the colonists, as he watched the blade spin slowly to a halt against his leg. Only here, as he looked upon the wolf carvings at its hilt, did he realize that the hunting knife was his.

Guilt and bile rose in his throat, and he looked away, hugging his knees close and pressing his face into his folded arms. He was silent as stone in the many hours that followed.

It felt an age before Kehton could even bring himself to move, lifting his head and staring blankly upon the glinting metal beside him. He reached for it gingerly, thoughts empty as he wiped and returned the knife to its sheathe. Somehow, it felt like poison pressed to his side, slicked as it was with a soul he had loved.

The Wolf whispered to him that regrets would not feed him, that the depression would not break them from the snare, but the warrior only rebuked its appeals for strength.

He hid. It was cowardice, he knew, but Kehton was beyond caring. Forsaking his previous attempts to tame it, he shut his eyes and shrank back behind the Wolf.

_The Wolf lay still for a few moments before the impatience and close walls goaded it to its feet. It paced the cage restlessly, head low and ears flattened. Motion distracted it, dulled the reminder that it had been too long since it had seen open sky, had run on fresh snow._

_It had become so engrossed in memories of plains and trees, that when a quiet scrape of wood sounded, the Wolf jumped visibly._ _It stared past the door of the cage, to the wooden one that led to the corridor beyond. The door had opened just a hair, but that was enough for it to bristle and slink into the corner farthest away._

_A man stepped cautiously into the room, but withdrew again as quickly, a sleeve pressed to his face when the stink of old blood reached him. The Wolf lifted its head slightly and sniffed at the damp patches of snow on the man’s brown coat, knowing he had traveled a long distance._

_A flash of metal lit in the man’s hand and the Wolf tensed, the memory of blades and pain still raw. It realized late that the sliver was only a means to open the cage door, but that did not matter. Now was not the time for gratitude._

_The Wolf surged out before the cage had been fully opened, relishing in the raised cry when its teeth found the man’s shoulder. The two of them collided with the stone wall as the prey kicked to get free, the struggle of a cornered hare._

_A knee caught the Wolf in the flank but it only snarled, voice muffled by cloth and meat. It held on relentlessly through the man’s thrashing, until a second more desperate kick connected with its chest and threw them both apart. They fell backwards to either side of the room, though the Wolf rolled lithely onto its feet._

_It shook itself once and coiled low for the kill, seeing only the open doorway that the fallen and gasping foe was barring it from. The Wolf did not notice the second figure flashing into the room, moving as it did._

_The Wolf shot forward for the exposed throat, but its fangs only snapped around empty air as a blaze of dark fur slammed into it. Needle-like teeth fastened onto the scruff of its neck, dragging it clear off its feet and forcing its shoulder into the ground._

_The Wolf growled and struggled uselessly to get its legs back under it, paws scrabbling as it tried to heave off the weight, as it twisted around to glare up into the Fox’s icy gaze._

The familiarity struck him and Kehton blinked, his shock driving the Spirit to the back of his mind. He found a man crouched low over him, effortlessly pinning him to the stones with a hand at his throat and a knee in his ribs.

“Enough,” Haytham commanded, a snarl of impatience at his lip.

In different circumstances, Kehton might even have been pleased to see him. But not here, not with the fresh bruises around his wrists, not with the blood of his kin staining the floor beside him.

The Wolf folded its ears disdainfully, recognizing but hating the other’s strength. Kehton slowly relaxed the tension in his frame, looking away to one side and hissing quietly, “Release me.”

Haytham regarded him a moment, before he straightened and allowed the younger one to stand.

Kehton rubbed the cramp from his neck, his eyes hooded as he glanced between his father and Charles, the latter of whom was swearing in a heated mutter as he tended to his bite wound. The warrior felt little remorse for him.

“Why are you here?” Kehton asked instead, not quite looking at Haytham and feeling his irritation burn just under the surface.

“To help.” Haytham met the Mohawk’s disbelieving glare and clearly saw the resentment behind it. He only sighed impatiently, ”Yes, yes, you’ve no need to explain. Charles already questioned the guard. I’m well aware of... of what happened here.”

There was a pause as the other glanced around the cellblock, his expression carefully masked. When Haytham turned to the warrior again, his tone was nonchalant. “Ziio would wish to see at least you freed, I’d think.”

Kehton lunged without thinking, unexpectedly stung. His lip drew back as he pressed his knife under the elder one’s chin. “You are not to speak of her,” he bit out.

A quirked brow, bored indignation. “And naturally your first instinct is violence. Will killing me bring her back?”

Kehton could not answer, but his blade was steady. Both of them were stock still, their Spirits bristled and circling, almost not daring to breathe.

Haytham scoffed after a long silence, his sneer almost imperceptible. “As I thought. Honestly, you’re just lashing out at shadows. I wasn’t even there.”

“No,” Kehton responded, the flash in his eye dark and accusing. “You were not.”

The warrior relished in the guilt that flickered across Haytham’s face, but both of them knew too well that such satisfaction was empty, that their pain was shared.


	6. Company of Brothers

Haytham regained his composure quickly enough, setting two fingers to the knife and pressing it away from his throat. “If you’re quite finished with biting the hand that’s feeding you, let’s be off. We aren’t exactly leaving at our leisure.”

The hunter slowly sheathed his blade and began to follow his father, but Haytham had stopped just before the doorway. Charles finally looked up as he finished tying a bandage around his shoulder, and Haytham good-naturedly helped him up off the floor.

“Before we go, apologize to Charles,” Haytham said in afterthought, glancing back at Kehton. He was smiling slightly, but the flash of the Fox’s eye warned against disobedience. “If not for him, I would not have known you were here.”

“If not for him, I would not be here at all,” Kehton replied flatly.

“Don’t try to twist what happened, boy,” Charles snapped. “I saved your life, if anything. Had you actually wounded the King by some  _miracle,_ you would have been put down on the spot.”

“I will not be grateful to one who spared my life, but stole all else from me.” The Mohawk advanced a threatening step, but was startled by a sudden grip on his shoulder.

“Mind your tongue,” Haytham said sharply, dragging him away from the general and deftly stepping between them. “You blame first me, then Charles. If you are looking for those responsible, think first of what role  _you_  played.”

Kehton faltered, once again feeling the guilt clench him, but he hid the discomfort behind a soundless snarl. Haytham only met his eye without flinching, staring upon him expectantly until the younger one conceded and muttered an apology in Charles’ general direction.

His father gave a satisfied nod and continued toward the door without another word.

The Mohawk found his tongue again as he stalked after the two elder men, speaking firmly, ”I am not leaving without the others.”

They had only passed a few corridors, but Kehton could already feel many eyes watching him from the branching rows of cells. Some nearby clutched at the bars and stared upon his lack of ropes or chains, as if freedom were some foreign concept. He returned the gaze resolutely, attempting to reassure them without words. He would not abandon them, not again.

“By all means, try to free them,” Haytham spoke carelessly without turning, his stride unbroken. “See how grateful they’ll be for the brief seconds of freedom.”

Kehton paused in some confusion, a little involuntarily glancing to Charles for an explanation.

“Have you already forgotten that you are in the middle of New York?” the general asked, glowering. “This is not like those caravans you freed out in the frontier. If a savage is found wandering the streets here, they are shot without question.”

“Fortunately, that will not be the case for you,” Haytham remarked lightly from ahead of them. “There is enough Kenway in you to pass for a colonial. These friends of yours, however, will have to wait.”

The hunter could do little more than nod reluctantly, glancing with a frown towards the yet more souls he was leaving behind. An ache swelled in his heart as he remembered his brother Mohawk lost somewhere in this maze of iron. He would return for them soon, Kehton swore silently.

After much dodging of the guard patrols, the two colonists paused by a narrow hallway with a single door. Charles leaned against the wall, evidently to keep watch, and Haytham beckoned to the hunter as he entered the small room.

Kehton followed reluctantly, and lifted his head to take in the many cabinets and shelves filling the armory. Several native weapons, each bearing the mark of varying tribes, lay tangled on low shelves in stark contrast to the methodically arranged uniforms and muskets. The arms of so-called savages evidently deserved as little respect as their owners.

“You know something of subtlety, I trust?” his father asked from the opposite end of the room, running a hand along one of the many shelves. Much to the hunter’s surprise, Haytham easily picked out Kehton’s tomahawk from the mass of stolen weapons and tossed it to him.

“I suppose,” Kehton answered guardedly, anticipating some barbed insult to come next.

“Deception is what will keep you alive in these streets. Hiding in sight, not killing the King’s loyal or burning his caravans. Fire begets fire, as I’m sure you’ve learned.”

The Mohawk bristled at this, but when he met Haytham’s eye, he saw only a cool disapproval rather than malice. He was being lectured, Kehton realized, disliking it.

“You’ll learn quickly, I’m sure,” Haytham said with a wry smile, sifting through the closets now and throwing him several pieces of new clothing. “Do what you must to stay alive. I would rather not have gone through this trouble for nothing.”

His father left to grant him privacy and Kehton struggled with the foreign attire for several long minutes, though he knew he could not complain. He only gritted his teeth and kept silent, ignoring Charles’ impatient comments to Haytham as they waited for him.

Kehton honestly felt uncomfortable with his very skin as he dragged on the long, blue and ivory coat and drew a white scarf up over his chin to hide his brands. The clothes spoke too closely of the soldiers who had burned his village, and he could not help but feel some guilt from wearing them.

The hunter was forced to abandon his own clothing, but he held stubbornly to small reminders of home. He refused to give up his dagger or the feathers wound into his hair, which he had tucked down beneath a tricorne. Charles scoffed something about ‘useless sentimentality’, but Kehton ignored him.

After he had changed, the three of them set off at a far different pace. They no longer skulked and waited for soldiers to pass, but marched forward and stepped clear through formations of guards, often scattering them. Even at this, the guards would only tip their hats politely and shift out of the way.

Kehton observed this curiously, and would later find himself matching Haytham’s long stride and rigid posture. Demeanor and show, it seemed, cowed the guards more easily than threats or a blade.

All seemed well, until they reached the final room and the double doorways that led into the warehouse courtyard.

Three soldiers stood at casual attention, two in the middle of the room and one some distance behind them, leaning against the doors. Charles hailed them all coolly, his role as the tyrant’s left hand obviously well known, and the two obligingly moved aside to let them through the narrow space.

As they did, Kehton made the mistake of meeting the eye of one who was near enough to jostle his shoulder. They stared at each other for mere seconds, but the Mohawk realized jarringly that this was the man he had tackled upon being brought to the warehouse.

The other’s eyes widened, and Kehton knew that assailants were not easily forgotten.

Haytham looked over to him sharply just as the hunter lunged, likely sensing his sudden tension upon the air. He matched Kehton fluidly, stifling the second guard’s cry of alarm at the flash of the Mohawk’s blade and the resulting spray of blood.

Kehton had just enough time to notice Charles give chase to the third fleeing outside, but his attention was called sharply back to his opponent.

The hunter had managed to stab deeply into his target’s stomach, but the soldier had only reacted with desperate fury, whirling his musket upward and catching Kehton’s chin with the stock. He staggered back dazed, but the bayonet lancing for his face only sparked his temper and the Spirit’s wrath.

_The Wolf snarled offense, ducking low beneath the barrel and plowing forward into its wielder. They skidded back across the pass, the man yelling incoherently and lashing out with boot and fist, having lost his gun._

_The Wolf bit deeply into the arm that drove into its jaw one time too many, and held the limb still as the man thrashed. Blood gurgled from the rift in the prey’s stomach, condemning him, though he had not yet accepted it._

_The wound claimed him eventually and the Wolf finally released its hold, panting as it watched the eyes slide closed._

_The wafted scent of death rose to it and the Wolf slowly licked its jowls, feeling the claws of long hunger clench within it. The man had only just stopped twitching, and the fading beat of his heart called, the warmth of his meat intoxicating--_

_“Son.”_  It was not a shout, was barely loud enough to even carry down the corridor, but the Mohawk started to his senses all the same. His breath grated past his bared teeth as he turned to meet his father’s stern gaze.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the other demanded, his narrowed eyes darting between him and the approaching footfalls coming from down the hallway.

“I...” Kehton stood clumsily, glaring a moment upon the body before lashing out, “It was nothing.”

He had moved to follow Charles into the courtyard, but Haytham seized his arm to stop him. Kehton snarled against the painful grip, but his father only held him immovably until he lifted his gaze to his face, their Spirits’ eyes blazing, matching.

“Keep it under control,” Haytham spoke, every word sharp and pronounced. He released the hunter without waiting for a response and strode ahead of him into the moonlit evening.

Glancing only momentarily back at the corpses, Kehton roughly drew a fist across the blood running down his chin and followed. His heart was still pounding, and though they unsettled him, he pushed the thoughts of the Wolf out of his mind.

Fatigue and hunger plagued him throughout the hour they fled through the city streets, but Kehton kept them to himself. His vision narrowed upon the dark figures flashing before him in the murky light, and it was all he could do to keep up.

Luckily, sanctuary was not too far off, and the hunter did not hesitate to follow Haytham into the basement doors that he had swung open against a house. For a moment, he could still see his father slowing to a halt just ahead of him, before Charles closed the hatch and shut out the moon.

They caught their breaths in darkness, until Haytham lit a lamp to guide them through what was evidently a maze of passages beneath the city. The walk was long but significantly less frenzied, and the two took a moment to tell Kehton of the rebellion they had festered under the tyrant’s own city no less.

Haytham spoke briefly of keeping an eye on Washington throughout the Revolutionary War, of rallying the men and women disgruntled under his command. Such discontent had swelled alarmingly after the man had named himself King.

It had been several minutes before Kehton finally posed a question. “Why have you not just killed him? If not now, then years ago, when he had not yet rallied his army?”

Charles gave an abrupt, harsh laugh and Kehton could easily hear the old wounds beneath it. “Because he was not always a threat. Washington was actually failing quite miserably to gain the people’s support, right until he found that Apple. Now it’s impossible to get near him.”

“To even have a chance of bringing him down, Washington must be away from his city, his army, and his artifact.” Haytham spoke the conditions crisply, as if well practiced, and Kehton guessed that he had been devising a plan for some time. “The first two are easy enough, if we are fortunate enough to hear of which town he fancies swanning about in. However, he is never without the Apple and not just anyone can take it from him.”

The hunter was silent a moment, before he asked warily, “Do you mean to use me, then?”

“We all have our part to play,” his father answered impartially. “But realize, your blood is mine as well. Don’t think you alone hold an advantage.”

“That is all well and good, Master Kenway, but do remember that it’s been months since the King’s even left the city,” Charles spoke up, his tone somewhat dejected. “We had a chance when he struck Kanatahseton, but it happened too quickly for me to get word to you.”

The words called up an image of flames and corpses, but Kehton swallowed hard and spoke his mind all the same. “I... I told Washington about the Great Willow. No doubt he will visit it soon, seeking its power for himself. Such a journey would bring him far from the city.”

Both Haytham and Charles glanced to him in surprise, but the former likely noticed his discomfort as he merely commented, “Thank you. I’ll take that into account.”

When they reached the base of the revolution, the Mohawk was slightly taken aback by the noise, by the animated conversations and the clatter of wood and metal. Several people were scattered throughout a large cellar, sitting or standing among broken shelves that may have once held wine.

Charles had wandered off in slight distaste at the raucous activity, but Haytham set a hand on Kehton’s shoulder and directed him to a long table where some of the rebels were dining. He pushed him lightly toward them, before heading down a corridor after Charles.

Only here did the Mohawk realize that it had been days since his last meal, and all thoughts of mistrust were lost for a moment. The other rebels sat him down among them as if they had known him for years, and though they did not try to stoke him into their conversations, Kehton felt somewhat warmed by their company and chatter.

Despite their spirit, the Mohawk took note that they were a paltry number, barely more than the warriors of his village. The muskets he could see were one for every three men and even these seemed past their prime. Few wore military attire; except those bearing the scarlet of the Revolutionary War’s vanquished.

Kehton frowned minutely, pitying. They had no hope of victory against the King’s army, regardless of the delusions that had likely been fed to them.

After he had eaten and slipped away from the crowd, the hunter wandered the underground space. It did not take him long to find Haytham seated at a desk in the corner of a room, papers and books arranged about him in meticulous order.

“Is this the entire resistance you have been building?” Kehton asked, his tone only mildly goading as he sat upon a nearby chair, his elbows upon its back. “I would have thought your years of absence would have borne more fruit.”

“It would’ve been easier once, when I was still in the company of my brothers.”

His father’s answer was distracted, but he eventually looked up from his writing when he felt the hunter’s questioning gaze upon him. He continued with a shrug, pen busy again. “That was once, but no longer - we’ve since parted ways. The choice was mine and I do not regret it, but it was actually your mother that...”

Haytham paused, silent for a moment before he shook his head with a scoffed laugh. “Ah, but that was before you were even born. I doubt you’d care to hear it.”

“...I would.”

“Pardon?” Haytham glanced to him, a brow raised.

Kehton had trouble meeting his eye as he clarified, “I would like to hear about it. Of you and mother.” He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, feeling – quite justly – as if he was asking delicate questions of a stranger.

His father’s smile was faint, but he nodded and set aside his book. Light had reached the basement’s windows before Haytham thought to chase him off so both of them could rest.


End file.
